Monday, December 26

Sing me now of Christmas, nowell sing me here.

(My Christmas wasn't really like this. I'm just being cynical because I generally dislike family holidays.)

I don't typically like holidays of the type where families roam the country in packs, raiding the refrigerators of their formerly cordial acquaintances and imposing sly diplomatic affections on distant relations.

Nearer to the home front, brother against sister and parents against in-laws all crowd under one roof, in frozen and polite accord. More dangerously do the females of the species congregate all in one kitchen where, inevitably, too many microwaves spoil the gravy. The children, expected to get along famously, will awkwardly sit at the television and wish they weren't. A few will find a good conversation or new cousin and gossip cliquishly.

The eve and day church services of Christmas are invariably led by one or more persons with snowflakes on their sweaters. At least one of their wives will have a machine-knit on-sale snowman cardigan. Grown-up children will return under obligation to their parents, though they have not for their own adopted the unaccountable sweaters; teenagers will fight the dress code, and the younger ones are shocked by the novelty into obedience.

After the present-snatching ceremony of Christmas Day, and Christmas Lunch is had, the good will of men for men will take shape in the form of mutual silence on account of having over-eaten.